


Darlin'

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Concussed Mycroft, Established Relationship, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Mycroft, M/M, Married mystrade, Tenderness, True Love, Very Temporary Amnesia, Worried greg, hospital fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 18:04:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14753679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: Mycroft has been injured in an accident. He comes round in hospital, confused—and discovers he's married to Greg Lestrade.





	Darlin'

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OwlinAutumn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlinAutumn/gifts), [bookjunkiecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/gifts).



> For my darling Owlie and my wonderful Minxy. I love you both very much. xx

Greg has barely left the hospital room.

John got him to take a shower yesterday morning at Baker Street. Otherwise he hasn't moved from Mycroft's bedside. He's falling apart before John's eyes, unshaven and quiet and not sleeping, but it's nothing they can change.

A few well-meaning nurses have tried encouraging him to relax, promising him the waiting will end soon. John tried to encourage him, too - just once. It didn't go down well.

Kind reassurance isn't what Greg needs right now. Nothing will make the waiting easier; no-one can make these days go faster.

It's just a question of time.

Sherlock - another thing Greg doesn't need - has been set on the trail of the driver. A hit-and-run outside The Diogenes; false plates. It's a miracle Mycroft wasn't killed. CCTV from the club showed him wrenching his assistant out of the path of the car, striking his head on the kerb as they fell. He saved her life. She's visited three times a day, and sits with them in silence for an hour every evening. Cards and flowers now cover the room. Photographs in the paper have appealed for witnesses all week.

By this point, the driver probably thinks they've gotten away with it - but the net is closing. Sherlock will find them. He's promised John he'll take the culprit to the police. John suspects by 'the police', Sherlock means one very specific part of the force. Any moment now, the door could open and Sherlock will drag some bastard in by the neck, throw them to the floor at Greg's feet, and suggest they start pleading at some volume.

What happens then will depend on whether Mycroft's woken up or not. If he's regained consciousness by that point, Greg might leave it to the courts to decide.

If he hasn't, John will probably have to intervene.

It's been a long four days, and the hours are only getting longer. John's holding onto the knowledge it'll be a memory soon. The consultant seems confident Mycroft will make a full recovery - he didn't even break a bone. He's just taking his time to come back to them. He won't be walking for a while. He'll need several weeks to rest and recover.

Early on, a few people made the mistake of saying things like 'lucky escape'.

Greg's darkening scowl led to that phrase being offered less and less.

Whether it could have been worse or not doesn't matter to Greg. John can see it in his face, every time someone tries to tell him. It's been bad enough, as far as Greg's concerned. He's not particularly interested in people telling him how lucky he is to have Mycroft unconscious in a hospital bed. He doesn't need that particular form of comfort.

He just needs his husband to wake up.

Until that happens, he needs to sit and wait - and John's going to sit and wait with him.

 

*

 

As is often the case, it happens suddenly.

John's sitting on the sofa, updating Sherlock by text, when Greg says stiffly,

"John - "

John looks up at once. Greg sits forwards in his chair, pale, staring at his husband's face.

"John - he - "

John puts his phone aside. He moves to the bedside at once, just in time to see it: a twitch around the mouth and eyes. Mycroft's breathing has deepened. He's flushing.

John puts a steadying hand between Greg's shoulders.

"We might not have him for long," he warns, feeling Greg start to shake. "Maybe only a few seconds. Don't be worried if he goes again."

Greg tightens his hand in Mycroft's, gripping it hard. His voice cracks with fear. "D-Darlin'?"

John's heart strains. They're so private - so guarded. It was two whole years before anyone knew a thing, even Sherlock. Even now, they never touch in public. They don't go to things as a couple. The wedding was conducted quietly in a registry office, with Mycroft's assistant and Sally Donovan as the only witnesses. _"Weddings don't mean anything,"_ Greg explained, when John finally summed up the courage to ask. _"One fancy day pretending to be something you're not... been there. Done that. It's the marriage matters, not the wedding."_

As Mycroft shifts, filling his lungs with another breath, Greg's voice tightens.

"Sweetheart," he whispers. "It's me."

Mycroft's eyes flutter.

As they open, weak and red and tired, it's John they find first. John feels his own pulse hitch. Mycroft stares up at him vaguely, bewildered by the sight of him. Exhaustion wracks his features. Nothing seems to be registering.

A possibility occurs.

John puts both hands on Greg's shoulders.

"He might not recognise us," he says. "Very common, very normal. He'll need a few minutes. Don't be worried. Alright?"

Greg's shoulders shake in silence. As his grip tightens on Mycroft's hand, Mycroft pull his eyes foggily from John's face. They move to Greg instead, and take him in - dazed.

He draws a thin breath.

"Inspector Lestrade...?" he whispers.

Greg's noise of distress nearly kills John.

He grips Greg's shoulders hard enough to hurt, squeezing, his heart now pounding.

"It's alright," he promises. "It's okay. He'll remember. He's halfway there. Give him a few minutes and it'll all come back."

Greg's struggling to keep his breathing steady. Tears course down his face as he tries.

"Darlin'," he whispers again, broken. He's spent four days locked into his panic, waiting and worrying. He can't hold it. John might as well ask him to grow wings. "D-Darlin', it's me. It's Greg."

Mycroft's forehead contracts. He doesn't understand. He glances down, and discovers they're holding hands.

"What..." he whispers, lost. "What are you...?"

John can't bear it. He knows he should intervene, and persuade Greg to let go for a few minutes - to relax and give Mycroft time to remember - but he finds himself frozen into place. He can't bring himself to speak.

Greg holds onto Mycroft tighter, trembling harder.

"S'okay, s-sweetheart," he whispers. His throat audibly clenches. "S'okay. You'll be alright. Just - j-just wait. You'll remember."

Mycroft searches his face. He's on enough painkillers to take out a rhino; four days of unconsciousness hasn't helped. "Remember... what?"

John realises Greg is rubbing Mycroft's wedding ring - as if it will grant him a wish.

"Y-You got hit by a car, love. Coming out of your office. S-Some bastard in a BMW. You've been asleep."

Mycroft gazes at him, trying to process this. Greg might as well have said it in Swahili. "Why are you calling me...?"

John squeezes Greg's shoulders.

Greg takes a breath.

"We're... m-married, sweetheart. You'll remember soon. Just let it come back." Greg's wrist shakes. He rubs Mycroft's ring harder with his thumb. "It'll come back," he whispers through his tears, and John knows he's telling both of them. "It'll all come back. J-Just need a minute."

Mycroft stares at him. "Inspector, I... I don't..."

Greg stifles a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. There's no joy in it at all. He pushes his sleeve over his eyes, shuddering. "Took me a year to get you to call me Greg," he says, his voice breaking. "Fuck. N-Now we're back there. _Fuck..."_

John rubs his back - slow, hard circles. "Easy," he says, lowering his voice. "Give him time. This is incredibly normal."

Mycroft's widened eyes drift to John. He takes a second to authenticate his senses.

"Doctor Watson...?" he manages.

John realises it's a question.

He smiles reassuringly, trying to force-project calm into Greg as well.

"It's me, Mycroft. Glad you're awake. Don't worry if it doesn't make sense yet."

Mycroft takes this onboard. He glances at Greg again, baffled; his mouth opens a little.

John inhales. With any normal person, he'd let them make their own way to the surface - but Mycroft is a Holmes - and John wonders if explanation will help.

"You suffered a fairly serious concussion," he says, as Mycroft continues to gaze at Greg in astonishment, glancing timidly at their joined hands. "You'll feel confused for a while. Your memories might not be in the proper order just yet. Try to relax and they'll come."

Mycroft swallows. He takes a second - then addresses himself to Greg.

"Married?" he says.

A tremor passes through Greg's shoulders. "Yeah, love."

Mycroft takes another second. "To me?" He hesitates. _"You?"_

"C-Christ." Greg staunches his tears on his sleeve, hanging his head. "Yep. F-Four years in June."

Mycroft's eyes grow to twice their size. _"Four years?"_

"We just booked for I-Italy, darlin'. Anniversary. Said you'd take me back to Bologna."

Mycroft is quiet for a second. His gaze hasn't left Greg's face.

"I like Bologna," he manages. "I like it very much there."

John isn't sure his heart could beat any harder. He feels Greg shudder under his hands, breathing out, still rubbing Mycroft's wedding ring.

"Y-Yeah, love. I know you do. S'why we had our honeymoon there."

Mycroft flushes.

"In Bologna?" Disbelief suddenly floods his face; it's followed by a wave of longing and distress.  _"You_ married  _me?"_

John can't breathe. He's suddenly glad to be holding onto Greg's shoulders - otherwise he'd fall. Greg's now shaking for entirely different reasons.

"Yeah, darlin'," he breathes. His fingers weave with Mycroft's, squeezing. "Yeah, I married you."

Mycroft's features tighten. "But you are beautiful," he whispers. "Why... why would _you...?"_

 _Christ._ John closes his eyes for a second, swallowing it back.

Tears soften Greg's voice. "'Cause I fell in love with you, sweetheart. Somehow got you to love me back. That's why."

Mycroft's face fills with wonder and pain. "But I've always loved you," he says. "S-Since first I saw you with Sherlock. Bond Street." His chest rises. "You were wearing a striped grey shirt."

"J-Jesus." Greg presses his sleeve to his eyes. "Darlin', stop it. You're killing me."

Mycroft's eyes suddenly glitter with distress. "Say you mean it." His voice breaks. "Say it's true. Don't taunt me, Lestrade. Please."

Shaking Greg lifts their hands, showing Mycroft's frightened eyes their matching rings. Mycroft stares; his mouth opens.

Greg kisses Mycroft's ring, wrapping both his hands around it.

"S'true," he whispers. "I promise. And it's 'Greg'."

Mycroft starts to cry.

"I-It can't be." It's almost a whimper. "It can't be true. You're wonderful. You can't be mine. I... I c-couldn't possibly have...  _you."_

John can't cope. He needs to cry, too. He pats Greg between the shoulders, and manages in a strained voice,

"I'll go get coffee. Go easy on him. He might fall asleep again without warning, right?"

Greg nods, looking up. His eyes gleam with tears. Four days of exhaustion are written across his face. "Thanks, John."

John grips his shoulder one last time.

As he lets himself out of the room, he hears Mycroft say,

" - _c-certain_ we are married?" - and Greg, through tears and laughter, promises he's certain.

By the time John gets back, Greg has defied the hospital's rules by joining Mycroft in the bed. How they managed to arrange themselves in the tiny space, John doesn't know. Mycroft rests against Greg's chest, safe in his arms, all of his tubes and equipment carefully moved to suffer no disturbance. Greg is stroking his back through his pale blue hospital pyjamas. Peace has settled over their faces, and the room itself seems to have changed - cooler, quieter, full of the same calm which comes after rain. Mycroft breathes deeply, slowly, half-wrapped in the sheets and nestled safe beneath his husband's chin.

The sight of his bare feet, resting against the calves of Greg's jeans, is strangely affecting.

"How's it going?" John asks, as he places a coffee within Greg's reach.

Greg gives him a small smile. After four long days, his eyes are bright. "Think we're getting there," he murmurs.

Mycroft mumbles against his collarbones. "Hello, Doctor Watson."

John takes a seat beside them, trying not to smile. "Hi, Mycroft. How're you feeling?"

Mycroft thinks about it for a while. "Rather tired," he decides at length. He stirs as Greg begins to stroke the back of his neck, a small and steady circle which feels calming just to watch. "Rather slow."

John's chest expands with relief. _Home in a few days,_ he thinks. Familiar surroundings will help Mycroft recover. The medical team won't keep him here any longer than necessary.

He imagines Greg won't be at work for some time.

"'Tired and slow' is fine," he says. "You're on a lot of painkillers. Probably be tired and slow for a while. How's the memory coming along?"

"Mmh." Mycroft draws a weary breath. "Better, I believe."

Greg places a quiet kiss on top of his head. "Where did we get engaged, sweetheart?" he asks.

A soft snort replies. "Your flat," Mycroft murmurs. "In the bath."

Greg smothers his grin, glancing guiltily at John. John looks away, his eyes bright.

"Where did we _officially_ get engaged?" Greg asks, and his husband's mouth curves against his chest.

"Ricordati. Our table towards the back." Mycroft sighs. "Tonno grigliato and panna cotta. You had... a steak. Rare."

"Lucky guess," Greg rumbles. Mycroft's smile grows into an open and unguarded grin.

 _"Sei la mia anima gemella,"_ he murmurs, the Italian faultless and soft.

John's heart twists at the look on Greg's face.

Greg hides a kiss in his husband's hair.

 _"Con te voglio invecchiare,"_ he whispers back. They've been learning at an evening class. John thinks he can guess where they're retiring. _"Sei il mio tresoro."_

Mycroft makes a sound of sleepy amusement against Greg's chest.

 _"'Tesoro',"_ he corrects, his voice soft. His arms tighten around his husband's waist. "You're getting better, Greg."

Greg brushes back his hair, glancing up at John.

John smiles back. The relief is as healing as ten hours' sleep.

Greg's eyes shine, then slowly close.

"So are you, darlin'," he whispers, and kisses the crown of Mycroft's head.

 

_**The End** _

 

**Author's Note:**

> Translation of Mycroft and Greg's Italian lines:
> 
> Mycroft's _"Sei la mia anima gemella."_ \- "You are my soulmate."
> 
> Greg's _"Con te voglio invecchiare. Sei il mio tesoro."_ \- "I want to grow old with you. You are my treasure."

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